


The Horror/The Divine (Hell’s Room of Requirement is a Sex Dungeon)

by KitschyKit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Sex, BDSM Scene, Breeding Kink, Comeplay, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley cries during sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Jizz being used as a metaphor, Knotting, Lack of Communication, M/M, Oviposition, Plot is there if you squint, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Size Kink, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tentacle Monsters, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Trans Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-30 20:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20779568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitschyKit/pseuds/KitschyKit
Summary: Crowley had gotten used to scratching a particular itch in Hell, but he was cut off from it the moment he and Aziraphale cut ties with their employers; and now, happy and in love, the itch is suddenly back and worse than ever.Guilt tastes sour and selfish, especially when he finally had everything he’d ever wanted sitting in a cottage in South Downs, and Crowley comes to terms with the fact that this probably was never just about sex after all.In short: Crowley is used to getting fucked by a personification of his self-esteem issues and finds that he has a hard time asking for what he really wants.And what he wants is to be in the lap of the Divine.





	The Horror/The Divine (Hell’s Room of Requirement is a Sex Dungeon)

**Author's Note:**

> If any of you are here because of my other good omens work, I am so so sorry. The T rating was kind of a one time thing. And please please do not read this if you are a minor— even if we’re friends, it will result in an instant block, no exceptions.
> 
> I just really needed to get this out of my system, sorry if it’s ooc.

Crowley didn’t go to Hell often. He _was_ a field agent for a reason, and the reason was they didn’t want him around any more than he wanted to be there. 

It was a damp and dark equivalent of a multilevel office park, where demons lived and worked in the same area, with barely any degree of separation between the two. It was where an office and the private closet-sized rooms looked exactly the same. It was a city of constant chaos, yet churned through the same terror of routine. 

And the coffee was always burnt. 

Still, like any complex beings trapped in a systematically exploitative situation beyond their control; (for those who need it, imagine this metaphor striking you with a baseball bat labeled Capitalism = Hell) Demons desperately needed to create their own means of enrichment, and the very reality of Hell provided it. 

Crowley himself called it many things in many languages, but it was only after the rise of a certain children’s book series that he finally settled on calling it the Room of Requirement. 

It wasn’t an ‘official’ room on Hell’s map, because it technically didn’t exist (nor was it approved by management), but everyone very aggressively agreed to keep it a secret, lest they lose it. 

In short, it was a well used, constantly roaming interdimensional portal that was designed to keep demons happy— by giving them what they _needed_, and not necessarily what they _wanted_. 

For beings that could summon whatever they wanted out of thin air, this was an important distinction, as having something as nice as a _surprise_ was probably the best thing for them. (Crowley swore someone crossed a wire somewhere though, because even in a room at the beck and call of his imagination, he still couldn’t get it to produce a decent cup of coffee.)

The fact that the doorway only appeared to Crowley when he was alone and off the clock (and not say, when he would kill one of his co-workers for said cup of coffee) implied that Crowley’s overactive imagination may have gotten carried away when using it over the millennia. 

During this particular visit, Crowley waited until he was done with his reports and meetings, and slipped into the room that was designated as ‘his.’ His room in Hell had little personality, really nothing more than a bed, a mirror, a particularly sadistic succulent that liked listening to screams, and a healthy stack of outdated flyers that had been slipped under the door. 

The Room of Requirement appeared suddenly, a doorway of stained ash wood that was nestled on the far wall, as if it had always been there. Crowley, despite knowing why it was there, despite _craving_ what was behind it, still stalled. 

He undressed the human way, and he overanalyzed, talking circles around himself, and felt the hot pulse of humiliation that had been building under his skin all day finally stretch to a fever pitch. 

He’d experimented with all manner of things on Earth, with all manner of people. (Except for one, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, think of him here, not like this, not _ever—_) But this. This he could only get in Hell, and it added a layer of internalized shame that was distinctly demonic in nature. 

When he stepped through the door, time stopped. It was relative, in this pocket universe, whether because it always did that or because he wanted it to, Crowley wasn’t sure, but he felt the door shut behind him, melting into the wall. 

He walked further into the darkness—the type that was immune to his night vision, the type that really did make him vulnerable. The room accommodated for him; the temperature was mildly pleasant, the floor soft and warm under the soles of his feet. It felt like he was walking into a den, and his senses struggled to accommodate. 

He was a demon, and on Earth he was the most powerful thing in the room most days. He was at the top of the food chain most days— but here, he was being stalked, he was being hunted, and he was prey. 

His cunt _ached. _

A low growl echoed through the room, and like a ripple in the pond the sound waves bounced against each other and Crowley was disoriented, his mind hazier, his breathing harsh and too-loud.

The darkness became more flexible then, movement bouncing off light that wasn’t there, shapes and shades contorting to melt into a physical body, and Crowley felt something cool brush against his ankle. 

He should’ve known that his on-the-nose obsession with snake motifs would come back to bite him. 

He had gotten to this point, because every so often, Crowley would wake up in his flat, gasping into the dark, and he would pant and sweat, twisting in the sheets, craving the sensation of too many hands on his touch-starved skin; he’d imagine his legs and cunt being smothered in touch, in something hot and wet and writhing, something ready to consume him, forcing its way inside of him. He’d imagine himself exposed and vulnerable and violated, streaked with cum and sweat and tears, falling apart on knots and tendrils and tongues. He’d imagine it, would crave it until he was soaking, and he’d come to the room and find the amalgamation of his faceless desires, personification of his most shameful fantasies. The impossible ones. The ones even creative humans couldn’t satisfy. 

This thing, this _Horror_ that Hell’s magic brought to life was purely from Crowley’s own overactive imagination, but just vague enough to feel like a surprise when it touched him. 

There was a clack of teeth, a wet tongue in a formless mouth, and fingers that were claws that were creeping vine-like tendrils. Crowley was studied and appraised— curious shadows reaching for him as if this wasn’t the hundredth time he’d done this, as if each time he was just a passerby in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

And he, as he always did, collapsed under it. And something like a cot caught his fall, twisted up in rags, and Crowley spread his legs, the fabric of his boxers soaked through, and he wanted, he wanted it to—

The Horror complied, and pressed a scaled tendril of muscle against his clit, rubbing him through the fabric, letting his hips rut and grind against it. 

The shadows moved, and while his hips sought out more friction, the ground beneath the sheets started to _writhe_, more tendrils manifesting to surround him. They encircled his wrists, his ankles, sliding against his skin and supporting him, _capturing_ him. 

Crowley choked, jerking against the bonds, and let his legs fall open wider, impatient, even in his deepest fantasies. 

He knew what he wanted, and hoped he would get it: Crowley wanted to be fucked within an inch of his life, and he wanted a rutting, dangerous thing to do it. 

He didn’t have to do anything but _take_ it, take the Horror deep inside of him and shake on it, be spread open and claimed. He didn’t need to perform; he didn’t need to act or hide or deflect or even _speak_. 

He just needed to be something wet and tight, flushed hot with the need to be filled, and when the Horror’s tongue slid inside of him, long and thin and not _nearly_ enough, Crowley damn near cried. 

It should scare him. It should scare him when the jaw opened wide, spearing him open on its tongue, sharp fangs engulfing his waist. Brittle hip bones were between its teeth, an exhale of hot breath between his legs, and it should scare him and it _did_ but it also made him throw back his head and moan. 

A tendril nudged against his mouth, insisiant, two fingers thick and just as unforgiving. He licked at it, needing something to do, something to moan around, to scrap his teeth on and choke back tears on—

His boxers were torn off with claws, and the cock in his mouth—it _was_ a cock now — stretched his lips and pushed further down his throat. 

The tongue made a mess of him, smearing slick on his thighs, wet and hungry for him, and he tried to moan around the cock in his throat, but it responded by slamming his head back into the ground, rubbing itself on his tongue. 

Crowley’s jaw started to ache as his shaking knees were pushed up to his chest, as shadows touched him all over, _possessing_ him, and the wet sound of the Horror’s tongue leaving his body was obscene in the dark room. 

There was a second cock to replace it though, rubbing slick and hot against the folds of his cunt, and it made him jump and choke and clench around nothing, and the one in his mouth pulled out, and Crowley realized a second later it’s because it wanted him to _beg_. (He needed to beg. He needed it because he didn’t know how to ask for the things he wanted, but here he could practice being selfish, and he could beg and beg and _beg…)_

“_Please_,” and it was a damp, fervent whisper against the cock on his lips. “Please please _please_.” 

It entered him slowly, and Crowley felt why: a knot on the end of the shaft, pushing against his walls, tugging at sore skin. 

He felt the pull as it drew most of the way out, slick dribbling out of him, drool running down his chin as he whined around a cock back in his mouth, and he _did_ choke then as the knot came back slippery, stretching him open. It rocked into him, steadily bouncing him on the knot, pushing him a little farther each time until it pulled all the way out and slid back in, meeting the last bit of resistance as Crowley sobbed and _oh—_

Criwley felt the knot push and settle in him, rocking in him once, twice— and he seized up and came from it, muscles throbbing, knees clacking together as he tried to squeeze his legs shut, shaking on the knot as he mouthed helplessly at the cock in his face. 

He could feel his heartbeat, feel his cunt throb on the Horror’s cock with trembling aftershocks and he didn’t want it to move— he wanted to stay _full._

But this was where the distinction of the Room of Requirement is so important. He wouldn’t get what he wanted. He would get what he_ needed_. 

He wanted to be spread open, but he needed something far more primal. Crowley came here because he had an itch to scratch, and what he _needed_ was to be mounted and _bred_. 

The Horror and it’s thick cock started to move, rocking into him, aborted little thrusts that made him whimper before it moved faster, slamming harder, and Crowley just had to _take _it, knees forced further into his chest as scaled shadows pressed bruising patterns into his skin. 

It fucked him, it fucked him and chased it’s own pleasure, rutting into him with no regard for him, just treating him like a slick and willing body, and he knew what was coming. 

Crowley knew what was coming, and still he tried to beg for it just in case, starlight building behind his eyes. 

The cock in his mouth came first, spilling down his throat, pooling on his tongue, choking and ruining him, dragging the softening tip over his face, over swollen lips. He panted around small gasps, trying to draw in air only for it to be forced out with each thrust, head dragging against the ground like a doll. 

He needed it to claim him, he just didn’t know _how_ but still he ached for something, anything to fill him up, fill up the emptiness in him— 

The Horror fucked deep into him and then stayed there, molding to the proportions of his body, knot snug inside of him when it started to _writhe_, contracting, because _it_ had decided what he needed to be full of, and it decided to pump him full of eggs, soft and malleable and stuffed so deep inside of him he was afraid he’d never be able to get them out. 

They were heavy, and warm, sliding against each other, against the cock still inside of him, pushing the limits of his body with each one until for one painful moment where he held it all, and then he swore weakly as the knot slipped out, his trembling body spasming around the last of the clutch. 

Crowley felt used and _blessedly _vulnerable, and he tugged absently against the shadows still holding him down, mostly because he wanted to press down on the space below where a belly button would be. He wanted to feel the clutch through his skin, and he wanted to sweat and ache and _revel_ in it. 

He was content until he had to let them go, then, _then_ he was a sobbing mess, an emotional release as well as physical one, sensitive and sore. 

The first few went easy, wet and slick as they were, and the Horror, the eldritch thing in the dark touched him, cooing low and animalistic as more shadow tendrils teased his opening, coaxing muscles to jump and clench and shake around the hot weight inside of him. 

Crowley sobbed as one tendril entered him, thinner than a finger, the slide sinfully easy, and it rearranged the remainder of the eggs, brushing up against the spot deep inside of him as it made an egg push up against his g-spot and Crowley _wailed._

He couldn’t do it, he _shouldn’t _be able to do it, legs too shaky and cramped to push the last of them out, and he lived in a world for a few horrified straining seconds where he would _really_ be bred, stuck with them inside of him, warm and naked and _full_ and he was coming again with a shout, the monsters tongue suddenly against his clit, slick tendrils hooking and twisting and holding him open until the aftershocks finally pushed the last of the eggs out, covered in his come, and Crowley— 

Crowley felt himself clench around nothing, a whine caught in his throat as his pinned hands flexed and clawed at the air. Tears streamed down his face, the empty feeling in his chest back, and he felt pathetic and ashamed and desperately, horribly lonely. 

“Again,” he begged, tone turning thin and pleading in the dark. “Do it again.”’

__*__ 

Crowley opened his eyes some time later, shuddering as another wave of aftershocks made his legs tremble. 

The door was right in front of him, light spilling out from underneath the frame, waiting for when he was ready to face the outside world. 

He dragged himself out, cleaned himself up, and then sauntered up on unsteady legs to the surface, where he passed out for two whole days, not knowing that in just five short months he would be handled a basket with the metaphysical equivalent of a bomb. 

__*__ 

Crowley was happy. 

He woke up in bed, in a shared cottage, and he was happy. 

He also woke up messy, a product of a hazy sweat-soaked dream, and decided the best course of action in the early morning was to drape himself in one of Aziraphale’s shirts, wander downstairs to find his husband and sit on his cock until the sun was well over the horizon. 

He found him in the library, all tartan blankets and quiet affection in the grey England morning, and when Aziraphale commented on the hour, Crowley just shrugged, and kissed all further questions out of his mouth. 

It was probably _because_ of the hour that he was so subdued if he was being honest with himself. He wasn’t normally this... this _demure. _But he felt safe in their home they had built, and so he melted into the headspace they had experimented with— something a little quieter, a little more vulnerable. 

He took Aziraphale deep inside and shuddered with it, those steady manicured hands on his waist, sculpting around his hard edges, feeling loved, feeling needy, feeling _primal. _

He kissed Aziraphale and whined when he bottomed out, thighs spread wide around his hips. The dress shirt Crowley had stolen to wear was slipping down his back, down his arms, rumbled, and Crowley knew how he looked but he didn’t care, because he was being kissed by an angel, and he was being fucked by the love of his life and there was no rush to it, no performance, just feeling and _oh_— 

Crowley made a soft sound when he came, Aziraphale’s thumb gentle on his clit, and he rocked a bit more, encouraging, _please keep going, come inside me_ _please_. 

Aziraphale _did_, moaning into his mouth, clever fingers weaving into his hair to pull Crowley closer as he gasped and murmured affections against his lips but Crowley was a thousand lightyears away, a thousand fathoms deep in a headspace and a memory, phantom pleasure rocking his body as he remembered what it felt like to be filled like this but _more, _hot cum filling him in _waves_, stretched around a cock, around a _knot—_

He came again, grinding against Aziraphale, clenching around his softening cock, feeling cum inside of him and he dragged his teeth over Aziraphale’s neck with a whimper when he realized that it _wasn’t enough. _

“More,” He said into his shoulder, and flushed when Aziraphale let out a startled laugh. 

“You’re certainly in a bit of a mood aren’t you dear?” 

It was teasing, that little-bit-of-bastard tone that made Crowley feel small and and eager and _yes— yes, he_ was in a mood and the mood was _please more_. 

He couldn’t quite say it, couldn’t get the words out, shaky hands on firm shoulders. Aziraphale twisted to brush their lips together, noses touching, white curls turning a rose-tinted steel as the sun rose behind the clouds, and shushed Crowley, soothing the whimpers he didn’t even know he was making. “I’ll take care of you darling, whatever you need.” 

Crowley came twice more on his fingers before breakfast, and once more after when Aziraphale found that he was still _hungry, _and Crowley shook and sobbed and clung to him for over an hour, his thighs thrown over the angel’s shoulders as he tried not to feel guilty over it not being _enough. _

It passed. He moved on. Sex wasn’t everything, he was _happy. _

He woke up alone again three months later, on his stomach, grinding into the bed, imaging getting fucked from behind in the dark of their bedroom, pinned in place by cruel claws and he felt so guilty he de-manifested his genitals entirely just to avoid the problem.

It was just sex. It didn’t matter: in the long run, what he had was so much better. They were on their own side. They were in love. 

_Fuck, _he missed Hell. 

Specifically, he missed the pocket universe where he would be repeatedly bred by a shapeless tentacle monster in the dark, but on more broad terms, he missed having _access_ to Hell. Having access to that Room. 

They won. The Earth was still spinning. They were retired. Aziraphale loved him back. They were in love. They moved in together. _Aziraphale loved him back_. 

Crowley’s guilt sat in the back of his teeth and he tasted it each time Aziraphake asked what he wanted, because now he was _thinking_ about it, it was becoming a _thing_, because of course, _of course _he would be selfish with Aziraphale’s love like he knew he would, he would ruin it, ruin _them_ because he didn’t _appreciate_ him for some reason. 

Because Crowley sometimes craved those fucked-up impossible things when his body should know better. His body should know perfection when it’s right in front of it, inside of it, a heavenly host under his hands so perfect it _burned— _ but no, for _some_ _fucking reason,_ perfection felt like his arms collapsing under him as he’s pumped full of eggs and Crowley wanted to _cry_.

He tamped it down, rode it out, buried it under layers and layers of denial and tried very hard not to miss it. 

It wasn’t like he had wanted it very often _before_ the Apocalypse anyway. He had plenty of kinks, plenty of things they did and _didn’t _do— kinks where their interests didn’t line up, and Crowley could nod and forget the concept even existed and that was that. 

He didn’t know why he couldn’t shut this, this _one fucking thing_ out. He’d tried very hard over the years to never mix the Room of Sexquirement with Aziraphale, but the two seemed to now be steadily on track to collide, because Aziraphale— when it was his turn, Aziraphale was a _very_ good dom. 

Crowley was hyper aware of himself and his dynamics in a room at any given time, and so when he was submissive it was always more of a mental game— pretty words and compromising situations, put something in his mouth and make him feel useful, put a flashy collar on him and make him feel owned, fuck him and ruin him and always, always, always come inside of him _please_. 

Aziraphale was a good dom who lit him up and wrung him out, dragging out a scene like he was pushing all the buttons in an elevator; flipping all the right switches with a practiced hand and well timed words. And Crowley was _terrified_ of pushing any further. 

But still, after an impressive (and sadistic) month-long streak of soothing rope burns and tracing welts with his tongue (because Azirphales sub modes were so physical, so much more immersed in the contradiction of pain and pleasure that he wanted to feel _everything_— everything Crowley could give him and _more_—) Crowley woke up sweating _again. _

Crowley woke up sweating, one sleepy hand already down his pants to take the edge off, and it was too late, too late when he remembered that Aziraphale had followed a whim and slept with him last night, and he felt the bed dip as the angel snuggled closer and kissed the back of his neck, half awake himself. 

Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his chest, and made a pleased sound at what his found, teeth scraping his neck in a wicked grin as Crowley was caught clenching around three fingers and biting his knuckles hard enough to bruise— and Crowley thought to himself, in slightly hysterical 18th century tones: _bugger all this for a fucking lark. _

Denial stopped working; so he adapted. 

He pushed back further into Aziraphale’s embrace, and moaned when the scrape of teeth turned into a hard bite, the angels erection digging into his back. 

He curled his fingers, grinding his clit against his palm with a wet gasp. 

“Angel-“ it was a plea, a stuttering request that Aziraphale interpreted by miracling away their pajamas, pressing them fully back to chest. His fingers brushed the back of Crowley’s thigh, teasing and asking for permission all at once, because he was Crowley’s _beautiful_ bastard. 

“Would you like something?” 

Crowley let out a soft moan. 

“Use your words dear, I want to hear you say it.” 

He was also Crowley’s beautiful _bastard._

“Az-Aziraphale—,” Crowley’s voice was _wrecked_, stiff from sleep and ragged from want. “Want you in me.” 

The hand on his thigh tightened, and Crowley’s smooth subtle plan to hint at what he wanted flew out the window as his leg was pushed and held up, holding him open. 

Crowley shuddered as he withdrew his fingers, wet hand flying back to touch whatever part of Aziraphale he could. “Fuck me,” he said. “Come in me, I need it,” he was whining now, a touch mortified that he’d said that without thinking. 

“My beautiful darling,” the words were whispered into his neck, the press of his cock inside of him hot and slow. “Such lovely things you ask of me.” 

Crowley _melted_ into the bed with a moan, leaving the angel to rut into him. His hot frantic need was replaced with the knowledge that all he had to do was lie there and take it, and the heat in his veins turned syrup-thick. There was no rush there, just a warm embrace and an empty head and a full cunt—

The last time he’d been with the Horror (reporting in to Hell about the well-being of the Antichrist), he’d been more than a little stressed out.

The tendrils that time had been wet, dripping with come that was rubbed over his skin, sticky and degrading as they pushed into him. They had _writhed_, fucking and curling in him, hot slick leaking out as more was pumped in, and he had felt _obscene_ with it. 

The Horror used his body over and over and hadn’t stopped filling and breeding him until he came from it. Crowley had shook and shook and _shook_ as it came inside of him and _it still didn’t stop_, not until Crowley was crying, a catharsis he hadn’t known he’d needed. 

When it finally slipped free he had felt himself _gush_, thighs and ass wet, and he had pressed his face into the floor, trembling fingers touching his clit. Slick thighs clenched together as he desperately tried to keep all the come inside and he had brought himself off one more time on just the feeling of being so well-used. 

The memory made him clench on Aziraphale’s cock, a hot shiver curling through his core. 

“Fuck me,” he demanded, and it was on a gasp, a prayer. “Again and again and again. I want to feel you in me all day.” 

Refractory periods were something that happened to other people, although they hadn’t used its full potential quite yet. 

“Would you like that?” And oh _no, _the angel was a fast learner. “Would you like me to use you whenever I wanted, whenever I needed?” 

Crowley made a strangled sound like a yelp, nails digging into Aziraphale thigh. _“Angel.”_

It was just talk, it was just talk but Crowley was _aching. _

The noise Aziraphale made was far more idle than it had any right to be when he was sheathed fully inside of him. “I could do it you know, fuck you all day, whenever I wanted. And it would be quite a lot I assure you, for I always want you darling, in every way, against every surface in our home.” 

Crowley’s mind was fuzzy, trying to find the words but losing them just as quickly. He focused on a more immediate problem. “Can I- can I touch-“ 

The hand in his leg tightened, the next thrust hard enough to make his teeth clack together, and Crowley’s realized that Aziraphale was coming undone as well. “Yes my love, I want to feel you. You’re so sweet when you’re like this you know.” 

Crowley _did_ know, and he tried very hard to pretend he didn’t, even though Aziraphale had made a game out of making him blush. Now though, now his fingers were drawing fast and light circles over his clit, pushing him to the edge, bucking back against the angle of Aziraphale’s thrusts until— 

“You’re so beautiful my darling boy, let go, I have you, come for me.“ 

When Crowley came down, it was to the feeling of small kisses on the back of his neck, on his shoulders, kissing over bruises and bites.

“Good morning,” was murmured into his hair, and the tone was somewhere on Aziraphale’s sliding scale between sweet and smug. 

“Proud of yourself are you?” Crowley asked, warm and affectionate and boneless in Aziraphale’s embrace.

“Immensely,” and he went to pull away. 

A bolt a nameless panic went through him and Crowley snapped his hands up to pin and keep the angel’s arms around him. “Stay.” 

“Stay?” Aziraphale echoed back, and Crowley squeezed his arms tighter and nodded, at a loss for words. 

There were a few careful moments of silence and then Aziraphale’s teeth were back, scraping over a dark bruise. “Stay...in you?”

“If you want to,” Crowley said in the way that mean he was asking for something but wanted it to be Aziraphale’s idea. 

Aziraphale’s breath was hot and a little ragged. “All day?” 

A nod. And then: 

“What was it you said you wanted dear?” 

Aziraphale’s thumb has been absently brushing over the skin on his chest from where it was held, but in an instant it was charged with something more _deliberate, _as it made long teasing movements just below his nipple. 

Crowley couldn’t answer, the sting of it on his tongue, and he pressed himself back further into the touch. 

“Crowley,” and it was unmistakably his dom voice as Aziraphale connected the dots, tone sweet and melodic and made from steel and fire. “Do you want to be filled with my come?”

“Uhnn-“ Crowley’s whole body twitched, hips rocking onto the cock still inside of him, and didn’t deny it. It wasn’t asking, or begging, and his entire body was flushed hot with humiliation but it was so close he could _taste_ it. 

Aziraphale’s drifting hand gained the biting edge of blunt nails. 

“Greedy thing,” and Crowley _moaned_, mostly because it sounded less like an admonishment and more like a _compliment._

A plug was manifested, a safeword decided, and the sheets were twisted and curled in Crowley’s hands because Aziraphale was nothing if not _thorough _when trying new things, and Crowley felt embarrassingly hot as Azirphale studied his face, watching Crowley shake apart on the thickest end, only to pull it out and replace it with his cock again, more than happy to make due on his promise. 

Crowley’s hips were sore by lunch, and his legs were shaky enough that he made Aziraphle take their tea curled up on the couch for fear that if he tried to stand he’d do something embarrassing like have them give out from under him. The plug was a heavy weight inside of him, one that made him feel constantly off balance between reality and the memory of the Horror, and he would clench around it, steadily getting wetter and wetter. 

If Aziraphale, beautiful sweet _unshakable_ Aziraphle was overexerted he didn’t show it, or didn’t allow silly things like physical limitations to affect him. 

And then Aziraphale had him up against a wall in their library, whispering warm filthy words in his ear— and Aziraphale really did have to hold him up then— limp as his eyes rolled back into his head, and he could _feel _come leaking out of him because of the angle, soaking the crotch of Aziraphale’s trousers, dripping onto the floor—

And when he came it was in a soft wave, but one that lasted a long time, aftershocks creating starbursts in the back of his mind, the ache in his cunt familiar and finally, _finally_ being enough. 

Crowley adapted and successfully maintained a degree of separation between Aziraphale and the Horror, and he was quite pleased with himself as he was carried up to the bath. 

He was floating in his head, foggy, and he made an embarrassingly little sound into Aziraphale’s chest when he realized he wouldn’t be alone when he came back up from whatever corner of his mind he’d been in since that morning. 

“Thank you,” He said quietly at one point, soft from hot water and steam and kisses. “For not pushing me to ask for- for the new thing.” 

“I know you have a hard time expressing yourself at times my love,” came the reply, equally soft and warm. “I will only ever push for one word if I’m worried about you.” 

The Horror wasn’t real, it couldn’t _love_, and Aziraphle didn’t leave him feeling empty inside in either sense of the word like The Horror had. It was a _manifestation_ of his imagination, and Crowley was starting to think it was better to keep it that way. 

He had something better. And he, over time, was getting better. 

__*__ 

It was a Thursday afternoon, and Crowley was watching TV, having blessedly thought his problems were over, as an itch had finally been scratched. 

“My true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler building,” the Handsome Angel on TV said, and Aziraphale let out a prissy snort as he walked by. 

“Well that’s just ridiculous,” he said, coming up behind the couch to get a better look. 

Crowley reached a hand up instinctually, twining their fingers together on the back on the couch. “It’s an American TV show, of course it’s ridiculous. Besides, they don’t have much to work off of when it’s beyond their comprehension.” 

“Well you’re probably right about that, I haven’t manifested in well over 400 years, nor has any other Angel.” 

Crowley paused, something unidentifiable and electric running down his spine. “Have I ever seen your form?” 

He hadn’t, he would’ve— he would’ve _remembered_ surely. 

“No dear, it’s definitely a little too much,” and the pinched tone made Crowley twist to get a better look at Aziraphale’s face. 

“Whatcha mean?” 

Aziraphale was fretting, embarrassed by the topic: “It has too many layers to it for one, too many appendages— if it wasn’t made out of grace I would say it would be rather terrifying for all involved. Well-“ 

Aziraphale amended his statement with a chagrined little wiggle. “Well it _is_ rather terrifying. I still feel just _awful_ about scaring that nice family in Akkadia, what with all those eyes...” 

Crowley’s mouth was drier than he expected, and he carefully looked back at the TV. “Probably wasn’t that bad Angel.” 

“Ah, well,” There was something almost too quick about his response as he squeezed Crowley’s hand. “I appreciate you saying so dear. Dinner out tonight?” 

Crowley was having a very difficult time focusing anyway, and the change of topic didn’t help. He made an affirming noise that was more to release the pressure in his throat than to reply. 

The moment Aziraphale left the room, Crowley’s mental wall between his fantasies and his realty finally collided. 

The shadows in the dark were now a blinding light, a creature of too many eyes and soft feathers and a thick tongue and being filled up with hot sticky _ecstasy. _

Crowley’s memories of the Horror shuffled and rearranged themselves neatly into his new mental picture of the Divine, of _Aziraphale, his angel_ taking him and breeding him, and he lost 20 minutes of the TV show having a bit of a breakdown about it. 

It made it worse, because this time, the Room and the monster weren’t behind the ultimate paywall that was Hell. This time, all he had to do was _ask_ for it, for the _Divine_, and that made it_ so much worse_. 

It would be Azirphale seeing him at his most vulnerable, _abusing_ that vulnerability, filling up all the broken pieces inside of him with holy light, and Crowley would have to _ask nicely_ for the _privilege _of being used.

He would beg. He knew, in that instant, he would beg for it. 

Instead, he stuffed a hand into his mouth, desperately shut away the whole thing into the back of his mind, and went to go find his husband so he could drop to his knees and not think about anything at all. 

__*__ 

Crowley knew denial didn’t work, so he woke up the next morning, and he adapted.

All he needed was to know what he was working with. If he saw Aziraphale’s true form, he would realize there was probably no way to jack off to it, and then maybe if he was lucky he could find the courage to ask and they could bring out the plug again. 

He would compartmentalize— and if Aziraphale’s true form was something he was truly ashamed of, Crowley would swear up and down to never mention it again. 

__*__ 

Aziraphale was always at his most affectionate in the mornings: cohabitating meant that his time alone was when Crowley slept, and so he was always energized and delighted to see him.

This morning was no different—Aziraphale was at their kitchen island, sitting and watching the birds like a true pensioner. And he was there to gently kiss Crowley as he handed him coffee that was always the perfect temperature, and never burnt. 

It was always better in the morning then, to ask vulnerable questions.

“How did you sleep?” 

Nightmares were less common now, but habits, once started, were hard to break. 

“Fine. Had a dream about you.” 

“Oh?” 

Love meant that the bakery box on the counter had been raided in the night, but that one cinnamon scone was left for him. Love meant that Crowley still cut it in half as he slid onto the stool next to Aziraphale, legs touching from knee to hip. Love meant Aziraphale put an arm around him and Crowley pressed even closer still, and slid the bigger half towards his husband. 

Love meant that this was also a blatant bribery tactic, one that Aziraphale would see through the moment Crowley opened his mouth, but Love meant that Crowley knew it would work anyway. 

“Don’t remember much, but it’s always nice when you’re in them.”

“I tend to prefer the real thing,” came the response, soft and delighted as the offer of half a scone was accepted. 

Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder in a way that, if it was anyone but him, it would be distinctly uncomfortable. 

He could still drink his coffee though, and he felt Aziraphale’s happy little wiggle as he munched on the scone, so he stayed right where he was. 

“I don’t think your true form would be that scary,” he said, and it was deceptively casual. 

“Are you…are you being extra sweet because you’re _curious?” _As predicted, Aziraphale saw through him immediately. It made Crowley grin into his mug. 

“I’m never sweet,” he said automatically, because it was an inside joke and also conveniently avoided the question. 

Aziraphale set down his plate and _that_ meant business, and Crowley raised his head so they could at least look at each other when they talked. 

Crowley had a few very careful ways to spin this, but it all depended on how Aziraphale interpreted the topic. 

Aziraphale looked at him, unblinking, and then promptly destroyed Crowley’s careful plans. “How are you doing my dear?” 

Crowley froze. “What?” 

“You know you can talk to me about anything on your mind…” and it was soft and it was _knowing. _

Crowley swallowed. “Come on, I’m the one trying to get you to do something you don’t want to do, I was just curious like you said, we can drop it if you want to.” 

Aziraphale’s mind only seemed to work harder, _analyzing_. “Is there… something you don’t think I’d want to do?” 

Crowley was fairly confident they weren’t talking about the same thing anymore. But they were getting way too close to what he wanted to avoid and he tried to steer the conversation back into ‘normal’ weird and not ‘whatever the fuck this is’ weird. 

“The...changing?” He tried. “Your true form?” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Forgive me, but you’ve been at war with yourself over something for a while now and this is the first time you seemed to actually settle down and have the courage to ask about it.” 

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly, and he winced, softening the blow. They had agreed, quite a while ago now, to be less shit at communication. “Sorry, it's— it’s not about you, or us, it’s just a me thing.” 

“And this... sudden curiosity about my true form is also a ‘you’ thing?” Aziraphale didn’t use air quotes but they hung around the word anyway. 

Crowley had wanted to be in charge of the conversation to _avoid_ this precise situation. He couldn’t hide from a direct question: Love meant having a _conversation_ because they never wanted to misinterpret their feelings ever again. It meant, once confronted, the truth must come to light, even if it was hard to admit. 

“Yeah.” He didn’t like how small his voice was all of a sudden. “But I don’t know if I can-- it’s hard to talk about.”

Aziraphale softened, hand reaching out to touch his thigh. “I will respect that, but is it— is—“ Aziraphale’s mouth twisted around guilt. “You’ll tell me if it’s— that it to say, I don’t want you to _ever_ doubt my devotion to you, to _us_, ever again.” 

Crowley felt the weight of that guilt like a crack in his own ribs. “Oh Angel isn’t not _that,_ I know you love me— it’s just _dumb. _And kinda gross, and I’m working around it.” 

There was relief, and also concern. “Crowley, please don’t dismiss your feelings like that, you’re clearly bothered.” 

“It’s something I need to get over, and I don’t want you to feel pressured—“ 

Azirphales eyes snapped sharply to his. “So it does involve me?” 

Crowley weighed the words on this tongue. “For a while, no, because I wanted to keep you separate in my mind. But now we’re on our own side, and it does involve you but, sorta er, peripherally.” 

“What changed then, most recently?” 

Crowley flushed. “Went straight out of the frying pan and into the oven I did.” 

“I don’t think I quite understand your metaphor,” which was Aziraphale’s way of saying _you’re not making any bloody sense dear boy_ and Crowley ran a hand down his face, flustered and embarrassed. 

“I _know_ Angel, I just. I didn’t want to have this conversation.” 

“You wanted to see me in my true form,” Aziraphale stated, a way to get them on the same page but also very obviously a trap. 

Crowley nodded, falling into it anyway. “That was the goal.” 

Aziraphale’s knee was still touching his. Still in his space, at their kitchen table, in their home. 

When Aziraphale found his words again, it was with cautious knitted together eyebrows. “Why?” 

Crowley didn’t know where to even _start_, and there was a creeping sense of shame that this was even a _problem_ at all because it _shouldn’t be a big deal._

He tried to swallow it. 

“It's a mental thing,” he started, which also made it sound like he himself was a bit mental, which definitely didn’t help any. “It’s about power dynamics.” 

_“Oh,”_ Aziraphale blurted out, and he blushed a second later. “Yes, you do seem to like those.” 

Crowley shifted, jittery hands twisting knots in his lap.

“I like being at your mercy,” he said quietly as he took a risk, getting closer to the heart of it while still framing it differently, and watched as Aziraphale’s eyes darkened, leaning into his space even more. “I like being yours.” 

“So you’re interested in my true form, and power dynamics, and the last thing you wanted to do in bed was for me to treat you like some sort of toy to use and come in at my leisure.” 

Aziraphale leaned closer, and his knowing tone had a distinct satisfied purr to it. “Do you know what I get when I combine all three of those facts?” 

Crowley’s tongue tried to unstick itself from the roof of his mouth, eyes wide and fully gold. “Nghk.” 

Aziraphale reached out, closed the distance between them to take Crowley’s hands in his. “I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of darling.” 

Crowley dropped his eyes then, mouth twisting into a frown. “You don’t know the half of it angel.” 

A hand was lifted to Aziraphale’s mouth, and the back of it was gently kissed. “Explain it to me then dearest, for I have a vested interest in keeping you happy.” 

Crowley smiled then, and his voice was soft. “I am happy.” 

Aziraphale smiled back, and flipped his hand to kiss the inside of his wrist instead. “Satisfied then,” he corrected. “Satiated. Quenched—“ and a peak of tongue flashed across his pulse, making Crowley jump— “_Full_.” 

“T-there was a Room,” he started, and he couldn’t meet those piercing eyes, but he could stare at their joined hands, at the way Aziraphale’s fingers gripped his. “In Hell. Went to it every couple of years.” 

“And what was in it?” 

“Anything. It was designed to create whatever I wanted.” And then he amended the statement with a shiver. “Whatever I needed.” 

Aziraphale kissed his palm, hot breath encouraging and incredibly distracting. “And what did you need?” 

“Something big. And terrifying.” 

“You wanted to feel scared?” 

“I wanted to feel helpless.” That was easier to say, familiar like the weight of a collar on his neck, and Aziraphale smiled. 

“And what did you need it to _do_?” 

It was on the tip of his tongue but it _burned_, too much, crossing a line somewhere. He fought with it, fought with it as piercing grey eyes watched him, a storm brewing behind them. 

Aziraphale moved cautiously then, seeing him struggle, and broke eye contact to press his face into Crowley’s hand again, weighing his words. 

“Did you need it to tame you?” A kiss on his palm. 

“Keep you?” A kiss on his wrist. 

“Possess the very core of you, ruin you for everyone else?” A kiss was placed on his elbow as Crowley whined, and he was being tugged forward as Aziraphale laid a heavy hand on his thigh. The angel knew precisely how to unravel him, and he carefully lowered his defenses as Aziraphale moved to kiss the base of Crowley’s neck. 

“Fill you perhaps?” The kiss on his neck was soft, barely there, and Crowley couldn’t hold back the gasp that left him. “Mount you until you’re a mess at my feet?” 

The next kiss was below his ear, and Crowley was hit with the realization that this had become less of a guessing game and more of a _checklist_. 

Something like hope curled in his chest. Something like slick stained the inside of his pants. 

Crowley was tense and straining, wanting to get even closer, to crawl into Aziraphale lap at their kitchen table and offer himself as a feast— but the hands on his wrist and thigh held him in place as Aziraphale lifted his head to brush his nose against his, voice temptingly low. “Do you need it from me love? Do you need an Angel to make the ache in your pretty cunt go away?” 

Aziraphale lips were mere centimeters away, eyes flicking up and down his face, cataloguing every microexpression, and Crowley felt like he was going to be swallowed down into the floor if he looked away for even a second. 

“_Please,”_ he begged, and his tongue was burning, _burning_, “Please-“ 

_Please breed me, use me, ruin me until I forget my own name, fill me up and hold me close and stay please stay with me even at my worst. _

“Anthony,” Aziraphale said softly, forehead coming to rest on his, the hot edge of tension softening, and Crowley _broke_. 

“Love me,” he begged against Aziraphale’s lips. “Make me yours.” _Make me worthy of being yours. _

Aziraphale kissed him, hands coming to tangle in his hair, and Aziraphale kissed him like he was precious, like he was something to be prized. 

“You are mine,” he said. “You are _loved_, Crowley I’m sorry if I ever gave you reason—,” 

“Don’t,” Crowley said, and tried to make his voice stop shaking. “Like I said. It’s a me thing.” 

“Do you want me to…?” And Crowley looked at him, _properly_ looked at his husband and realized that he wasn’t the only hopeless sap: Aziraphale would show him his true form at the drop of a hat and he— he looked almost eager to do so. 

Set a menu in front of the Angel, and the anticipation for a good meal would only grow. 

Crowley swallowed, and this time it didn’t burn as much. “Yes come on I— you already know I’m into it.” 

This time, when steel grey eyes found his, they were full of mischief. “You haven’t even seen it.” 

“I’ve seen you,” Crowley countered, as if it was even a relative point. “I’m into you.” 

“This is probably an event better suited for the bedroom my dear,” and it was with a _look_, and a tug on the hair still in Aziraphale’s hands and Crowley bit his lip around a smile. 

“Yes alright,” and he raised his hand to snap, suddenly finding themselves standing in their room, and Aziraphale closed the distance immediately, slipping arms around his neck to bring Crowley down for a kiss, impatient hands tugging his robe to the floor, impatient feet urging him back to the bed. 

Crowley fell back when he hit it, legs snapping open to welcome Aziraphale in further, but the Angel pulled back instead. 

“Could you look away for a moment dear?” It was a soft request, and Crowley tried to be soothing. 

“I can handle what you’ll look like angel.” 

Aziraphale stared at him, eyebrows raised. ““Crowley I’m afraid I might blind you.” 

His mouth clicked shut. “Ah.” Crowley found that he also wasn’t any less turned on. 

A meaningful look and one dramatic eye roll were exchanged before Crowley did a full body flop to bury his face into the nearest pillow. He also very deliberately shook his ass while he did so, just to get the last word in. 

But there _was_ a flash of light, like a heartbeat within the very room, and the sound of wings, shifting against the floor, the ceiling, each other, like the distant sounds of pages turning, and Crowley was glad to find that when he peaked out from under the pillow he could still see. 

And what he saw was _divinity. _

It was a warm glow, backlit with warm browns, like a fire in clay cave, flickering in an endless desert— it radiated a primal sense of safety, one that Crowley hadn’t experienced in thousands of years since humanity had progressed. 

It felt like _home_ but it looked like feathers, a constant shifting mass of tawny wings, like a wood thrush, centered around— Crowley couldn’t actually focus on Aziraphale, his soul knowing there were other dimensions to see but the human brain unable to comprehend them, so his eyes slid off the center of him, drifting to the side. 

Vines, vibrant with life, vibrant like the very Garden they were made to protect— they were veined with gold, dotted with leaves, and steadily spreading from the center of the Divine, creeping up the walls of their bedroom, of the bed, towards _him. _

A vine touched his ankle, and he resisted the urge to pull away, shivering, and when Crowley looked back at the Divine he flinched under the stare of a thousand silver eyes, wide open along the ridges of a dozen shifting wings. 

“_Aziraphale_.” It was almost a prayer. 

The wings seemed to pull back, the equivalent of a furrowed brow, and Crowley immediately followed it up with “If you open your mouth and tell me to Be Not Afraid you’re going to sleep on the sofa.” 

There was a familiar laugh, and a rush of _warmth, _one that spread through him like a wave. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and his heart was thundering in his chest. “You’re incredible.” 

The Divine form at the end of the bed was made up of gold and steel, of plants and feathers, of leather bound books and caramelized sugar, of a thousand all-knowing raincloud eyes that were trying to see into his very soul, the same ones that stared him down on a wall, when the Earth was still shiny and new. 

Crowley had never felt more exposed. 

The sound of bells, the sharp smell of ozone and: “_**Crowley**_.” 

It was like being struck with a wire, electricity running down his spine to his clit, nerve endings over-saturated and Crowley shivered under it, head thrown back as his feet weakly kicked out. 

He miracled his clothes away the instant he could remember how to, flushing down to his chest with his own forwardness. 

“Do that again.” Crowley panted. “Please.” 

“_No, not yet,_” came the response, and it sounded like an echo of something terrifyingly celestial, not nearly as powerful as his Voice. “_There’s something you need first.” _

The vines grew again, and _oh _the gold in them ran fever hot with holiness, not enough to hurt but just enough where if Aziraphale pressed down long enough Crowley would probably have the holy equivalent of rope burn. 

And the Divine was getting closer still, floating, large and bright over him. A thick vine, one without gold in it brushed over the inside of his thighs. _“Is this alright?”_

Crowley, seconds away from losing his goddamn mind, resettled on the bed to better spread his legs, gripped the sheets and _begged_. “Fuck Azirphale come on,” and his hips stuttered up. “_Please_.” 

Tawny wings blocked his view, _touching him_, brushing over him everywhere and he didn’t dare touch back, afraid he would poke one of the eyes. But the brushes were soft and light, cradling him as feathers stroked down his neck, over his nipples, down his chest and between his thighs. The tip of the vine was running over his folds, blunt and heavy and—

_**“I love you,”**_The Divine said as it pushed into him, the taste of lightning in the air. _**“I love you.”**_

Crowley _wailed_, a choked off sound as his body shook under the Voice, his body opening up with ease to accommodate the vine, the heavy weight of being full making him paw uselessly at the sheets, shivering. 

“_Oh darling look at you, look at you getting everything you deserve.”_ Crowley opened his eyes— when had he closed them?—and realized he was crying. 

“Don’t sssstop,” He asked, begged, _pleaded. _“A-Angel. I need—,” he choked under the gaze of The Divine, the eyes keeping him pinned far better than shadows ever did. 

_“I know what you need. You can take more can’t you?” _

Crowley made a few weak whines that might’ve been ‘_yes’ _and then there was the smell of rain and— 

_ **“Good boy.”** _

“_Fuck,” _Crowley was openly sobbing now, chest heaving, and the vine twisted sharply inside of him as he came, thighs trembling as soft feathers kissed up his chest, delicate vines brushing his skin. 

The vine mostly pulled out, a heartbeat of hesitation, and Crowley looked up with hazy eyes, feeling the wave of warmth fill his core again— love, pure and holy, filling the cracks and spaces between his ribs, in the very knobs of his spine. Aziraphale would take care of him, and Crowley floated on feeling alone as the vine started fucking him at a steady pace, firm wings pushing his legs back, keeping them spread. 

Aziraphale knew what he liked, and he used it to set a gentle pace at a brutal angle, the rocking of the vine into him drawing small cries out of Crowley’s throat, ones of _“Angel angel angel oh please.” _

His hands clawed at sweat soaked sheets, voice raw from crying, feeling the moment build, the anticipation sweet on his tongue, waiting for the moment that Azirphale had decided that he’d had enough, there, there, _there—_

_“Can you feel my love darling? Can you feel my Love deep inside you?” _

And crowley _came, _shuddering on a sob, soft feathers brushing his tears away as he squeezed his legs together, trying to keep the vine in him, the pulse of it throbbing as it claimed him, bred him,_ loved_ him. 

It was hot and it was _perfect_, wave after wave of come splashing into him, making him shudder and pant and groan around it, and he knew those Eyes were on him, claiming him, knowing him, _possessing_ him, heavy with the weight of a storm. 

_ **“Mine.”** _

It was enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> If I’ve learned anything lately it’s that sometimes monsterfucking can be used as a metaphor for self-acceptance in order to justify almost 10k worth of porn about it and that’s okay.
> 
> This is dedicated to all the friends I’ve made in the Good Omens Big Bang. I’m looking forward to enabling each other’s bad ideas and crying over snippets with you. EDIT: also thank you to WyvernQuill because you’re the one that actually coined the term “the Horror” when I was first brainstorming— you’re amazing! 
> 
> And to Redlight, my magnificent fellow monsterfucker and friend. Thank you for putting up with my screaming in a fandom you’re not even in. And ESPECIALLY for helping me post this fic: you are the light of my life.


End file.
